Today’s a date you can’t forget,
When evil had its way.
To all responders, there’s a debt
We never can repay.
The world may mourn, but locals feel
A different kind of grief.
For here the shock was all too real;
We watched in disbelief.
For months we read the flyers
Of the missing and we woke
To the smell of all the fires,
Sadness mingling with the smoke.
In the classrooms, they’ll be teaching
Versions of that day’s events,
But, for most, it won’t be reaching
What that horror represents.
Rainfall pulls the blinds,
on bouncy folk’s wild picnic,
vile thunder as wet blanket,
yet blindside sunburst’s,
so prompt relief augurs well,
for merry beanfest revived
Ominous dark cloud,
imagined plague, close peril,
might scupper gallant junket,
but fleeting storm front,
heartens madcap daring poised,
to trailblaze gold rush frontiers
Have you heard the news?
Salad is quite deadly.
That really is quite scary.
I think I’ll stay safe
when I make my plate
and just eat a cupcake.
Inequality underpins the
Existence of current
Slavery.'
Mis-education remains its
Enabler.'
Fleeting images haunt my life,
ghosts of my regrets,
memories referenced
by a long, deep sigh;
things not done, words left unsaid,
unresolved aspects of my life
are open-ended dots
upon the page.
Conversations for which I compromised
intelligence and wit
are exclamation points
within my mind;
regrets for which there is no cure,
no admonition given,
no recompense
for those mistakes once made.
Knowledge stands alone
within reversed quotation marks,
utterances of the mind
scrawled in the margins;
residue from lessons learned
that float within the mental mist,
ready-references
for situations yet unborn.
All those past regrets are footnotes
listed randomly, at best,
after which
a period is placed.
He’s seen all the hopefuls reach for the sky
walks down aisles and anniversaries, how they pass by, as he fills every crowd with a presence so empty, minces his words and questions each syllable.
He’ll attempt a joke like his life’s on the line
(he gets it wrong, most every time)
The air is so thick, unmoved by the silence that falls when speaks, like he’s crafting a science but with everything that he’s seen, and every person he’s been, how has he not perfected the act?
That mask never sticks, it slips and they see it, and that’s when they start to step back. A life on the sidelines, that’s the life that he owns. A life not so giving, a life of stunted growth. He’s tried to escape it, more than once or twice, but he ends up just watching the world pass by.
As the children grow up and leave birthright towns, or when teenage lovers adorn wedding gowns, his place will not change- to all that is clear. He’s a seat filler through time for all the years that he’s here.
A spectator does not take centre stage.
A spectator, he’ll be, in every age.
I arose
and stood upon my toes.
I blew my nose
as another day was born.
I went to pee.
In the mirror, I could see
a man say, "Look at me,
an old man, tired and forlorn."
What is hope, ask a bee in cold winter days,
she hangs around the pruned rose bushes,
with the hope that someday the spring will come,
and the flowers will bloom again in the garden.
What is hope, ask the blue bird pair in early spring,
they work diligently to bring every twig and grass,
to build their nest in the corner nook of my house,
I see the hope in the eyes of this lovely pair,
They are dreaming of a happy home for their family.
What is hope, ask a lonesome soul,
When the uncertainties linger around in mind,
hope is the only refuge to calm our fears,
When the loneliness sends one in depression,
the hope of a companionship overshadows the despair.
What is hope, ask a human being,
our life is a sand castle of hope on a sandy beach,
with the lingering fear of drowning in occasional high tide,
our destiny, our future, and our own survival,
hangs around the magical hope, the hope that is the eternal inspiration.
When many are the voices
that few are the choices
The resultant explosion
is heard cross the ocean
Today I wish to discuss the discus
first flung in faraway Greco track and field events
as is it has no use whatsoever
yet serves its purpose to all intents
as an oblate spheroid weight
and altho' as you may know
a javelin one would hurl
a discus you should throw
Since you have been gone
A lot of water has passed under the bridge
A mixed bag of events have occurred
Leaving behind earth-shaking calamities
Difficult to quantify
As confusion like whirlwind
Keeps spreading and threatening
The very fabric of National Cohesion
Nobody knows what to believe anymore
As looters of our commonwealth
Keep spewing unbelievable theories
From two sides of their mouths
Shamelessly going back To their vomit of years gone by
To satisfy the cravings of their current masters
While citizens continue to wallow in abject poverty
Confused and traumatized
Where their next meals will come from
As their purchasing power has been eroded
By the demise of the national currency
Clubbed to death by inflation
And market forces
Never experienced in our chequered history
Busy Monday
Energy rise
Start for work.
Tuesday, Wednesday
A bit too tired
Need exercise.
Thursday, Friday
Gas up, refuel
Recharge once more.
Run Saturday
Mall afternoon
Sunday's all mass.
The 2nd Trump Presidency Begins
To express my own Whitmanesque
"barbaric yawp", constrained by
internal (and external) barriers,
mentally constipated, I merely mutter,
feel pressures steadily mounting.
Hesitant, I expel grunts and breaths --
disinhibit streams of consciousness,
encourage verbal fluidity, ease
the heaviness I feel, the weight
upon my chest. I breathe deeply.
Physiological processes require
tiring conscious effort. I decide
to be calm, to relax, to direct
myself away from temporal reality
to mere existence without excess
self-awareness, without fearfiul
anticipation of "future", which
other animals on earth seem happily
to lack. (Or do they?)
Stop thinking!
(No! Don't!)
With folded hands, I ask for forgiveness,
For the things I did wrong, or you did not like,
There is nothing wrong with this realization,
It makes me strong and decisive in life.
In the daily chores, the daily grind starts with dawn,
On the way to work, infuriate many people as I try to get ahead,
Forgive me for the short-sightedness,
As everyone meets their target at their own pace.
Forgive me for not keeping in touch,
Calls not made, ignored, texts never glanced,
For losing touch in the maze of chores,
And closing half-opened emotional doors.
Forgive me for the little fights,
When little disagreements turn into major arguments,
For moments when I fail to see,
The beauty in your constancy.
afternoon says bye
night announces its arrival
roses sway on branch
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.